


Nothing happens to me

by Ohjeezitsme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 22:09:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16072346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohjeezitsme/pseuds/Ohjeezitsme
Summary: Sherlock was gone, and John was left with a screaming boredom, a persisting grief, a life he didn't want and a flat full of memories.





	Nothing happens to me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there. So, yeah, english is not my main language so excuse me for any grammar error below.

  **December 24th, 18:59, almost a month after the fall.**

  The windows of the living room of 221b were always open. The curtains moved by the wind gracefully, and John, now sitting in his usual chair, could perfectly picture Sherlock playing his violin where he usually does.

  _Did_.

  All cool and mysterious, he recalled. The silence was infuriating, and the sound of Sherlock’s expert hands playing would be extremely alluring. In fact, anything at all would be.

_He would be._

  For now, he thought, the Scotch should be enough. It wasn't, but John could tell himself so. He could easily lie to himself. Always could.

  He lied to himself, to his father while he lived, to his friends, to Ms. Hudson, to Ella, and, later on, he would lie to Mary. There was one, and just one person he couldn’t lie too. He couldn't hide things from. He had hated himself for it, for being too blatantly obvious and pathetic, at times. But right now, he wished he could have been more like that. More honest, more open. Maybe things wouldn't have gone the way they did had he just fucking talked. /p>

  “Such a coward" he mouthed, exhaling. His chest feel tight, and his whole body felt drained of energy. 

  He took a deep breath trying to calm himself, failing tremendously. Even the air in the flat reminded John of Sherlock. His annoyingly posh cologne and hair product, the smell of cigarettes (that John had been happy to notice had dissolved a little, but not entirely), the disgusting odor coming from the kitchen produced by the body parts on the fridge John refused to get rid off almost a month later, the relaxing scent of tea. Sherlock was everywhere. In the flat, in his mind, in London. Pain and guilt came along with his memory.

  Because that was what he was now, a memory. Sometimes he wanted, no, he desired to just delete him. Blow him off his mind, just as Sherlock did with stuff he didn’t need. And the image of hid bleeding corpse, his best and wisest man’s body in front of Bart’s with no pulse, with no life, wasn’t something John needed right now. Or ever.

   Finally looking up from his cup, he realised the sun had already downed. 

Losing track of time was usual for him after Sherlock's death. He couldn't care less. "Mrs hudson must have left" he realized./p>

"it's not as if he had anything to do, or somewhere to go, anyway./p>

   Slowly, as in physical pain, he went and grabbed one of Sherlock’s coats. Using them was probably very not good to his “move on” thing, if that ever was going to work, but he couldn’t go out otherwise. He needed something with him. He needed him around. But that couldn’t be, so a coat, his very symbol of his escence suficed.

  He took one last look at the exasperatingly empty flat and closed the door behind him, going down the stairs. As predicted, Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be seen.

  She had told him earlier she was going to head to misses Turner’s in the evening, and wouldn’t return untill the next day.

“Oh, and John, dear” She had added before parting to her flat, with a charming pleading look in her eyes “Do me a favour, would you?”

“Anything” he quickly responded, with a intensely fake little smile “What do you need?”

“Please do get out a little bit tonight, will you? Harry said she would pass to say hi by midnight, you two could go out somewhere and take a little air out of this place full of…"she trailed off. Receiving nothing close to a response apart from the sudden tension in his hands and a pained look to the floor, she continued, placing a gentle hand in his cheek “I know it’s hard, but I assure you, it'll help. Just for me, promise me you’ll try to, yes?”

John grabbed her hand and squeezed it softly. Mrs. Hudson has been taking care of him with motherly care. She putted her own grief aside to make sure he didn’t do anything crazy during those first, awful days. Of course, he had catched her more than once washing Sherlock’s usual teacup along with the dirty dishes even when it needn’t cleaning, or coming everyday in the morning with Sherlock’s favourite biscuits, knowing John disliked them. Even sometimes letting out a tear watching the violin that one annoyed her so much on some nights. But she had been strong for him, and he should be for her too for once. She deserved it.

  She had said to him to wait for Harry, but he went out without her. She wasn’t coming anyway, he knew.

  To be honest, going out by himself wasn't that much of a problem. It's not like he could just kill himself. He had tried once, only to discover that, different from what he had believed, Mycroft still had an eye on him. He didn’t get why, being Sherlock… gone, he would still follow him everywhere. He vaguely guessed it had something to do with sentiment, not even caring to find out at this point.

People who passed him by took a rather disgusted look at John. He looked miserable. He was badly shaved, with a coat way too large for him on, deep purple eyebags under his eyes, a dead, hopeless look on his face and a bottle of whisky on his hand. His pace was already erratic, both from his stiff leg and alcoholic effects, and everything was a little fussy, but nevertheless he managed to take the right path to write a clear “Fuck off” to Mycroft, on the screen where his workers were tracing him, knowing he would have probably been notified that John had gone out. He smiled a little to himself.

“You would have loved this” he said, although nobody was listening.

  He entered Barts from the backdoor, knowing the building like the back of his hand. He managed to get to the rooftop without being noticed.

  The cool air hit his face pleasantly, and he walked slowly to the border, closing his eyes, breathing deeply. He Sherlock came back to his mind. Well, he never really left it.

"This is nosense" echoed in his head "Why am I even here?" His head hurt. There was no reason for him to be there, drunk in Bart's roof, sulking and being miserable. Frankly, everything he had done lately felt the same way. John himself felt that way: useless.

Trying to avoid pitying himself any more, he wondered what possibly could make Sherlock even consider doing this. Jumping. What could make him call him, lie to him, and make him watch.

Uncertainity flooded his mind, pressing the insides of his head, making him numb. He lost balance and fell down to the floor before taking another sip of the bottle, the last one, to later tossing it off somewhere around him carelessly 

He would have died for him. Would have given his life if that had saved him. He had already sacrificed himself for him back in the pool where Carl Powers died, and would do it again without a doubt.

  Sherlock knew John would be destroyed if he died. And he did it anyway. He hated him for it. But apart from any resentment and grief, John still found his suicide unbelievable.

  Sherlock Holmes was an addict, didn’t take much care of his physical needs, barely ate, but he was not _suicidal_. He was full of life, even when not in a case. He was emotional and unquite. 

  It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. He wouldn’t have jumped at his will. Not unless-

  Realisation hitted him hard. He tried standing up again, failing. He ended up with his arms on the railing, looking away.

“You couldn’t just do it out of” he shook his head, confused “nothing” he cried, his eyes watering. He rested his head is his hands, exhausted.

  He realised Sherlock must have had a reason way more deeper than just “being a fraud”which he wasn’t,  to do such thing. He knew he wasn’t. He knew the lightened gaze Sherlock made every time a case really got him, the silent guilt he felt every time he didn't solve the case in time and someone else died. He knew how terrified he looked when the girl started screaming when he saw him that die. He knew better that to ever consider Sherlock told him a lie. He was so alone, and he had helped him so much.

Something made him jump, someone.

 _Moriarty_.

Just in time, the big ben bell ringed. He heard happy cheers. A month had passed, and he was not any near to recovery. He didn’t want to move on. He couldn’t just… leave him like he did. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.  

   He was gone, and nothing was bringing him back. If moriarty had indeed been on this rooftop and made him jump, it didn’t matter because he was dead already. He had lost everything he had, and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't even go back to the army, and even that wouldn't be enough. Nothing would be. Defeated, he looked up the sky, angry. He pulled his hair, and let a sob escape his dry mouth.

“Merry christmas, Sherlock Holmes” was the last thing he managed to say before fainting.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh John, honey, you've big storm coming. Anyway, this is actually the first thing I ever write for this fandom so please understand if it's crap, ha.


End file.
